The Chronicles Of The Fallen One
by C.F.Winchester. Finalage
Summary: Continuing for now..


_HiddenDragon21…I feel that pain, you know? I've become something I never much appreciated. A writer who can spin a story fairly well…but hardly ever finishes his work. It hurts Damnit, but I've no choice. _

_Still, with what little respite I have…I'll fight it. For those abandoned tales. Hey, you left a review, but you can't post links in a review, so the most important thing, the contact info, isn't there…so what's a writer to do for someone who's willing to help and wanting to see progress? Well, most wouldn't care, especially in my shoes…but me in particular, well you people should know. I'm…crazy._

_I'm pressing a giant reset button people! _

_*Press*_

_The Chronicles of The Fallen One, Act Two._

_I do not own Final Fantasy, Tactics Advance, in any way…damn; I'm a blind, old man. I need to use 130% ~ 140% magnifications to see everything comfortably while I type…though at least 150% still looks uncomfortably big._

_This document is completely re-written in the beginning, but towards the storyline that once resided in the third chapter; the re-writing becomes sparser, instead focusing on more proof-reading and re-wording…but then I pick it up again…only to lose it again right at the last chapter due to the fact I could find nothing really that was glaringly bad. _

_This story was written like a broken time machine, jumping in at different points in time, so it's bound to have yo-yo quality, especially when my re-writing was sparse. You'll see the changes and what I kept, if you read the original…_

_Despite heavy proof reading, this will probably still have typos in it. (Just found one, fixed.) Muphry's law, which is __**deliberately**__ misspelled you silly word program…can never let anybody get away. I tried to keep it to the original word count. I'm not sure when this will be updated either, kinda spent myself re-writing. _

_Enough talk. ~ Finalage._

**_+-~COTFO~-+_**

**_Compilation X: Chapter One… "Condemned to Light." _**

**_+-~FFTA-~+_**

_You who accept fate…this world, nothing but an illusion, held tight in ones hands.  
You can hold it in the palm of your hand and still be holding nothing..._

A relic, relaxed, it's power condensed, lay open in a pair of waiting arms, hands spread in support, a simple show of acceptance, love. About the book that was held so simply, and entire world whirled about in beautiful brilliance, its utter complexity spinning reality from the fingertips of its creator.

_You...have accepted this?  
Yes…yes I have._

Trees, the touch of spring on their branches, early flowers, birds singing praises to a sun that set everything in a sparkle that only came from the morning mists. Simple, peaceful scents wafted through the breeze, of rose and thyme… It was…in a word, beautiful.

_Beautiful; but not mine. Yes…I have accepted this._

Crystal eyes watched from afar and near as the book slowly brought itself to a close, held steady by a supporting hand.

_There is nothing else I need…but the reality I belong in._

The one you belong in…

_**+~-Morning…**_

Light shafts through the fragile peace that my eyelids grant me, stabbing my eyes when they snap open in protest to the intrusion. Hissing at the insult, I raise my hand to cover my eyes, seeking to drive back the light from its crusade. A pointless endeavor; but an effort made regardless.

My wish for darkness is quickly dashed by a resounding crash from my right, and I snap around, my response far too slow for my liking. On the floor, moaning is my brother Doned; dressed in star pajamas and muttering curses. His attire makes me snap my head downwards.

I tumbled backwards and trip over my bed in surprise, and my head cracks soundly against the floor…that's going to leave a mark…and make me see some more stars...oh, here they are, right on time.

I've got on nothing but a pair of light blue pajamas.

I hear a tramping of feet and the creak of floorboards before my brother's head pops into my line of vision, his hands grasping a bed post for support. His face shows concern, but that paled in comparison to his mirth…he looked ready to explode for Christ's sake!

"M-Marche…are you…are you a-alright?"

_Oh go ahead and laugh before you burst something in there!_

"Ugh…well…I could have gotten up on a better side of the bed this morning…"

Something went off in my head, no…it wasn't pain, but it might as well have been, the way it exploded.

"Holy...Doned...you're walking...well…standing at least..."

Doned smiled. His joy at newfound mobility was well worth the slight annoyance I felt from being woken up to have the sun try and blind my eyes, or any annoyance at his laughter from my falling over…

"Hehe...I guess I'm not all that steady yet. Wait until Mom sees! It looks like your promise won't have to be so bad after all."

My promise…I had promised…I would be his legs. In his condition, restricted to a wheelchair for what seemed to be his life…I promised that, taking him from Invalice, taking his dream of being mobile away with it…

"Hey, hey, don't start, you're not out of the woods yet; you still need that chair…or maybe you can get a walker."

Doned made a face at that one, and let go of the bedpost as I pushed myself up from the ground, gripping it. My hands were soft and clean, and they slipped a bit against the smooth surface…that was a new one. Since when in Invalice were his hands able to look like this?

"...And look like an old guy? No thanks!"

Footsteps, and then the door cracking open, nearly explosively…Doned jumped a near mile in the air, and I feared for his head and the ceiling, but then my head snapped to the door, and winced at the sound of a scream. Mom…

…was standing at the door, looking from Doned, standing awkwardly and looking sheepish near my bed, his hand hovering near a bedpost, to me, who had his pajamas in a wrinkled mess and, with a pat of my head...bleeding. Nice.

"Oh my god..."

"Uh oh…busted!"

**_+-~1~-+_**

The snow fell silently to the ground, congregating upon existing piles of itself and blanketing the rest of the ground in a brilliant blanket…save for the ground that it stubbornly tried to claim, only to watch as Humans; with equal stubbornness, cleared it away. One such specimen was Marche, who paused to watch the futile attempts of both sides.

Leaning on his shovel by propping his chin on top of his gloves, the boy watched the big, fat flakes fall quickly in front of his face, landing on the ground and staying there as others came to cover them, increasing the clear whiteness, erasing the ground below…

Invalice…could someone really call that kind of world an illusion? Something that could be erased as simply as you would shake an Etch-a-Sketch? He didn't think so. Even snow…it doesn't really erase the ground as it makes it appear to be, doesn't it? It's still there, just covered…perhaps he did not want to feel like a murderer of friends, even _**family**_…but Marche truly doubted that Invalice…was really gone.

It was a world on its own; one that had been catered to Mewt's whims.

Marche looked at it as a place that had been locked away once, a window to how the world used to be before it became too dangerous, and magic sealed away. The book provided a gateway…but it needed the wishes and dreams of the force using the key to give that world life…

In other words, Invalice; to him, was a sea monkey…something that needed that extra water to be brought to life, but it already had everything else there. A blank slate for you to write on, the game that was yours to make…even if you destroy it, you only destroyed what you made…

The base was still there; and perhaps the imprint too…

A squeak made Marche perk up; and he watched as the screen door opened to admit his brother into the world, followed closely by his mother. He eyed his brother's measured steps, slow and careful things, born from fear if not stiff bones…Marche saw what was going to happen even as his brother reached for the railing, and he tossed the shovel aside just as his foot landed awkwardly on the edge of the steps.

Doned gave a short, clipped yelp, and pitched forwards from the steps, right into Marche. It had happened so fast, his mother had hardly any time to react, and even though Marche had expected it and caught his brother, he was still sent backwards, and he slipped too, sending him straight on his behind.

"Ugh…dang it…didn't expect that…that stings."

"Nice save!"

Glancing up, Marche saw Mewt, bundled up against the cold, looking all a miniature green Christmas tree with all the bundling up he had done…where was Mewt in that coat exactly? He gave a wave to the tree-person regardless, and got up quickly, pulling his brother up with him. His mother came down the steps, fussing over something or other, but it was lost on Marche, who was too busy trying to locate the shovel he had tossed off. Mewt; or…what he _**hoped**_ was Mewt…came up to him and dashed all hopes of that ever happening though.

"Sorry to interrupt, but you're wanted at Ritz's house."

Marche stood up straight from his position near the door, and gave Mewt a strange look, and so did Marche's mother. She turned to Marche almost thoughtfully…quizzically might have been a better word.

"Ritz? Is there something I should know Marche?"

"Mom, come on. You know better than to ask me something like that...you saw her. Remember? She came over with Mewt..."

There was a glimmer of mischief in her eyes now, and March braced himself for the worst. Who knew what mothers were capable of after all? He had fought all kinds of dragons and vampires, but he shuddered to think what _**their mothers**_ would have been capable of.

"Yesterday night, yes, yes...I remember now...still, calling you over to her house now? A bit fast are you..?"

_Has it really only been that long?_

"MOM!"

Really…what kind of…I mean…Ritz and him…were not…like…wait…were they- NO! Don't go there Marche just…don't…damn it, he was getting red in the face now, and his mother was cracking up worse than any school girl he'd seen in his life…now he knew what that saying meant…giggling like a school girl indeed…damn it mom!

"Kidding, kidding. You can't take a joke, can you? Go on. I'll watch this future marathon runner here. Just when the doctors said he's getting worse, you prove them wrong huh?"

"…Sure mom, oh and_ thanks_ for that image."

"Oh come on now, it's not that bad, she's a cute girl."

Marche turned around aghast, but his mother grabbed his arm.

"Shouldn't you be putting on a coat?"

A coat…what, was she nuts? He was perfectly warm, and told her so. She slapped a hand to his cheek.

"Hmm, you must have a fever; that's why you're so warm. Or maybe you're adjusting to this weather a lot faster than Doned and I, shoveling snow out there as if you were Siberian!"

Adopting a falsely regal voice to display his annoyance, Marche moved his face out of the way of her hand gently. He felt a little bit of Nu Mou slip into him.

"My dear mother, I assure you I am not ill, merely a robust young man who needs not a coat outside in the dead of winter."

_**+~-Afternoon…**_

Marche walked along the sidewalk next to Mewt, his hands jammed into his pockets. Steam rose slowly from his mouth in light puffs and a yellow scarf fluttered lightly in the wind, just a few inches off his back. Other than this, Marche wore nothing that would protect him from the obvious cold around him. A thin, long sleeved shirt and a pair of jeans was all he had to show next to his companion, who was bundled up tightly against the snow in a puffy green jacket and silver scarf, complete with a woolly green hat.

Now do you see why we call him a Christmas tree? Mewt turned to look at Marche before huffing a bit, it could have been a sign, but the coat was too puffy to tell. He shot a comment out at Marche lance-like as they walked.

"You know you look like a mental case walking along the street without a jacket, right?"

Another one…was Mewt going to act the same way as his mother when it came to this? Why hadn't he said anything when he was home and could have done something about it? Trying to find his friend's eyes in all the fluff, he fixed a look that relayed this in the general vicinity of Mewt's slit of face, hoping to catch an eye or two. Mewt shrugged the look off.

"I didn't say anything because Ritz is the same way. She doesn't seem to notice its freaking seventeen degrees outside…Dad too. Eskimos, the lot of you all; that is what you are. I'm like this and I'm _**still**_ freezing my butt off. You guys stood under too many waterfalls and fought too many Ice Sprites, super-human whack jobs…"

Really, was he going to go there; all the way to Invalice? Marche was pretty sure that whatever he had done to his body in Invalice had no effect here…in his head, a slippery, clean and soft hand gripped his bed post once again.

Right…he had developed some callouses on his hands in Invalice, toughened skin that couldn't be kept soft by his bracers, all from long usage with blades. Swords, knives, staves and bows, even the burning and freezing, the electricity that was associated with magic use…but they were gone. So the changes there had no effect here…right?

It didn't take long to reach Ritz's house, and upon arrival, he stared, slack-jawed, at the girl standing in the walkway... It made him realize how stupid he must look. She wore an open leather jacket, bleached or colored pure white, and underneath that, a light blue shirt and jeans. An ivory scarf was thrown around her neck lazily, but the most striking thing to Marche was her hair. Brilliantly shining, pure; "alabaster" hair shot straight down from her head and framed her face.

If she had only shared the same eyes as him, then she might resemble an ice queen of some sort, but the green ruined the notion of that…instead, it just made them stick out and draw attention, which wasn't bad either, but…

"Mewt, what took you so long? I must have been waiting here for an hour! Oh…hi Marche…where's your coat?"

Another one? Seriously, what was up with people and his dress code? He didn't need his coat!

"Speak for yourself Ritz, why haven't you closed yours? It's snowing outside."

"It's too warm."

Marche smiled at a small victory.

"Well then, it's too warm for me to wear my coat, I left it at home."

Marche then noticed that Ritz had additional "equipment" besides her thin jacket and scarf. She was leaning slightly on an old, half eaten mop; and by her feet was what looked like a beaten up curtain rod. She gave him a sheepish look when his eyes rested on them before snapping back to her.

"Look, I know it's stupid, but I felt weird when I saw it was snowing outside and knew that I was still warm. I wanted to see if Mewt had the same problem, but he didn't, so I thought that I just must have been sick…but then he told me about his dad, and now I see you…I just wanted to test something…you know…just to see…because I don't really know if we're all just nuts or if Invalice had an effect on us…you do remember Invalice…right Marche?"

Of course he remembered Invalice. The "dream" hadn't been for her alone, she wasn't crazy…he nodded slowly, but still looked at the mop in her hands. She wanted to spar with him? Maybe? Possibly? Marche sighed and shook his head, and Ritz's face fell, but then she noticed he was holding out his hand with a typical; "give me" gesture to indicate any one of the two arms. Ritz used her mop to flip up the wooden curtain rod and tossed it to him with a grin.

Despite what they had been fighting for, Ritz had always remembered her fights with Marche to be fun. He was a rare gem in the other world. A quick footed Paladin that carried two blades of cold steel and a mean set of healing spells. He was one of the few true challenges offered, and he always came up with something new…

"I'll just watch if you don't mind me guys…I'll be over in this corne-wahh!"

Ritz launched herself at Marche, kicking up snow in a spray of white clouds and mist, giving Mewt a shower of sorts. Marche sidestepped her charge and spun his rod in an arch at her back, but her foot came out and crushed his foot, pushing him backwards and her sideways, away from his strike. Marche hissed at the damage to his foot, but glanced up in time to kick himself sideways from another mad dash. Ritz's foot slipped a bit on the snow as she tried to follow his movement, but she held her balance, and her mop met his rod dead on.

"Damnit Ritz! Those are my_** eyes**_!"

Mewt would have continued to mutter about his now half-frozen, stinging eyes, but he realized no one was paying him any attention.

Grimacing against Marche's strength, Ritz slid her weapon and tried to break off from the match of strength, but Marche leaned in and pushed her off, slipping back a bit as he sent her head over heels into the snow. He waited as she got up and grabbed her mop from where it had been flung when she tumbled. She accepted him as he initiated the rush now, testing her balance as he aimed for her shoulder. She slipped away from his strike however; nothing but hair and snow was what Marche hit.

He stomped one of his feet deep into the snow and used it to spin, making him stop and face Ritz, who had swung at his back. His rod met her slash and broke against the force of the blow, but when Ritz expected to hit his face, she only saw snow and air.

_Shit! I forgot that he was fast too!_

Ritz felt something poke her in the side, and she instantly jumped backwards to avoid Marche's incoming slice, but he stepped with her in tandem, and his stick jarred her hand, making it vibrate and tingle.

She was distracted by that for a second too long, and Marche knocked her fingers again, making them loose her weapon. She dived for it, but had to freeze when his stick poked her in the neck…gentle but firm.

_Forget that!_

Ritz used her feet to kick up some snow, sliding backwards and upsetting Marche's sight, he had leaned down to jab at her, and now he had a face full. He reeled backwards, but he could hear her scrabbling around in the snow for her stick, and when she caught it, he felt the wind from her strike. He stepped to the side and struck out, and heard her utter a protest when it hit her on the cheek. The snow slipped from his face about then, just in time for him to widen his eyes and dodge a slice that would have cut him in two from head to toe…

Had she been holding a blade that is…as it was, it might have knocked him out cold for a good month and broken the mop. He observed the damage to her face from a safe distance. There was no noticeable mark, he hadn't jabbed hard.

Probably stung like crazy though…it was his turn to look sheepish at her discomfort and muttered curses…hey, he had been blind! What self-respecting Paladin hit a lady in the face after all- dodge time. Marche ducked when Ritz aimed for his head, and jabbed her in the midriff with both his weapons, making her double over. He rapped her hands viciously with the sticks again, making her drop her arms for the second time, only now, Marche gave her no pause, lunging in and tripping her up before hovering his stick near her throat.

Ritz decided to just lie there, looking at the stick as she was poised to make a snow-angel. A few flakes fell on her nose and stung her eyes, and she felt the wind whistle by and blow some of the ground snow in her face. Winter was determined to make her part of the landscape.

"Okay Ritz. Dead. We haven't really proved anything, but dead anyway."

He helped her get up by offering his hand, and watched as she dusted herself off and linked the snow out of her eyes. She winced before looking at him with reproach.

"You didn't need to hit my face!"

"I was _**blind**_! You threw snow in my eyes!"

"It was a diversionary tactic, you're supposed to stop moving if you can't see, not strike blindly!"

"It's not like I can hit anything else but you or air Ritz, so of course I'm going to try and move! Besides, I could hear you."

"In the snow Marche? I find that hard to believe. You just got lucky and hit my cheek."

"Got lucky my behind! You have luck I didn't poke out your eye!"

Mewt decided to step in at this time, failing to effectively reach his own eyes, which still felt like stinging and burning. His coat was a real pain.

"Guys, guys, come on, you're being stupid, quit arguing about this! The point is that you both looked like ninjas form the old movies just now."

Stupid? Ritz only heard that word from his muffling, and instantly reacted before her mind processed fully what he said a second or two later…then she just looked sheepish. Stupid indeed.

"Who's stupid!.? …Oh wait, sorry, misheard you."

"Ninja movies Mewt? None of us kicked the other's block about ten times while still in the air before knocking their head…or made crazy flying leaps…"

"That doesn't matter much Marche, the point is, you guys moved like pros. As if everything that you did in Invalice carried over…"

"No Mewt."

Marche's tone clipped off Mewt's speech, and he looked at his friend with some confusion. It made sense to think that things carried over, being how they were able to fight that way, but Marche held out his hand, palm flat.

"If everything carried over, I'd be a lot bigger. My hands would be rough and dirty looking, but they are soft and clean. I think it's more or our instincts. We've fought so much in Invalice, our minds are trained, and we know what to do in a fight, where to put our feet and hands, where to look for the opponent's movements…it's only mental. We aren't any stronger, are we?"

"Ritz broke your stick."

"With a full downwards slash that used all her strength Mewt."

"It's solid wood."

Marche gave him a look that shut him up with a snap of his jaw.

"It's not that thick Mewt."

Mewt cast about for some way to rid Marche of the look in his eye. There was something about him that didn't like to hear about Invalice…Mewt felt that…but he also knew that what he had just seen was not normal…no amount of talking about mental preparation was going to erase that.

"…What about Magic Marche?"

"Magic?"

Nodding, the brown haired Christmas tree continued.

"Yeah, Magic. You know; Thunder and all those, Cure and Life."

Mewt…there was no magic here. Marche felt like saying that, but he gave pause mid-way. Really, was there any way of knowing that without trying? If he were to believe what he himself said, that this was all mental training being passed on…wasn't magic's very base upon that? If magic used energy along with rites to form itself, and the mind had the right training, they could make it take form…but did the same rules hold true here as they did in Invalice?

That would be…scary.

Yeah, way too scary.

**_+-~2~-+_**

Magic…

It got inside you and ran through your veins.

It burned with its power and sears your throat with the scream you bite back to prevent from letting yourself rage to the world your frustration, your strength. If you let it, it soon became your everything.

Ritz remembered that curse well. She remembered griping that smooth, soft handle of her rapier, its grip wearing from use, but becoming all the more comfortable and easy to hold with its age. The magic she could channel through it, how, when she let it burn through her opponent, it filled her with such a rush of euphoria the feeling almost burst from her. It made her do crazy, unthinkable things.

Once, she almost, _almost_ got herself killed when, being so, so _**high**_ on her power craze, she jumped straight off a cliff in an engagement, whistling down with a maniacal laugh upon the unfortunate head of a Bangaa white monk, neatly crushing him beneath her falling form and almost slicing him right through.

One thing she did do was decapitate him. It took the other clan such a long time to heal the Bangaa afterwards...the judge seemed to be almost...afraid. Her clan seemed almost uneasy near her for a bit after that, but they laughed it off. They had been losing, and that one move had turned it all around. That one thing. Ritz had, in her state, tried to kill one of the only people she knew from the other world, because she wanted so badly to hold onto her dream.

They all had.

Marche had been the only one who had stood up and declared that this world was just a dream, and he was done with dreaming. He fought his brother Doned, Mewt, the prince, her, the master of another clan, even Mewt's own father, and more…

He did something deep down that all of them had been afraid to even think about…fighting his own desires. His desire to stay, his desire to be happy. He would choose his sad, troubled, broken life over a perfect and happy replacement, just because the other was real and restoring it was the right thing to do.

That above all, had been the driving power that had allowed him to take down a world's worth of wishes and dreams. One solitary will standing up for what was right and real.

Now…would he be rewarded for his virtue?

Ritz sat at home, installed near her window seat, staring out into the snow. Her hand rubbed the hilt of a blade near her with wandering finger tips. The blade was made to be a "toy" replica of a rapier used in the Final Fantasy universe…a Femme Fatale. It had been a gift from her parents about a year ago for her birthday, and she remembered eager days of swinging it about in play fights with fantasy monsters.

Now, practiced dancing fingers traced its length, measuring length, weight and the grain of the blade…it was a high quality replica, she knew that but…it didn't hold the balance the real thing did. Perhaps it was just her, but the blade felt like heavy lead, a shallow attempt at recreating a perfectly balanced, beautiful piece of "lethal art"…or so Shara had once said before setting down a fake.

Sighing at the memory, she turned instead to earlier today, when Mewt had brought up the topic of Magic. Marche had been adamant about avoiding the subject at all costs, but it kept forcing itself into their thoughts, till he decided light conversation on it would stem their flow.

For her worth, she had been a master Fencer, and she had a slight experience with Archery, at least enough to have aim…but where magic is concerned, both jobs were sorely lacking…Mewt never learned any mainstream magic either, but he knew a few "rites" that were used for laws…

Marche on the other hand, had rubbed the back of his head with a look crossed between mortification and embarrassment, and had told them that he had…a lot more magic training than he should have…

He had mastered the entire thunder series, Blizzaga and Fira, as well as the entire Cure series, Shell, Protect, Esuna, Life and Auto-Life…he had learned Wood Veil while he was a Ninja, and had been a Fighter for long enough to learn "Far Fist", before finally saying that he knew Acid, Twister, Level S-Flare and Prominence.

Mewt had berated him by calling out to the fact that it was "Quite the list there, genius… Thank god you can only use one to two jobs spells' at a time in Invalice…"

Marche had refused to try casting any spells to let them see if magic were possible, and made up the excuse quickly afterwards that he had to go to check on Doned. What was he so afraid of? If he could use magic here, it would be cool for him, right?

It suddenly struck Ritz that maybe Marche didn't think so, and with a good reason. If he could cast magic, he was dangerous. An outsider, someone who could destroy anything he pleased…

Magic, as Ritz remembered, burned in your veins…and here, there would be no release. Once you used it and woke those channels up…they were not going to stop. They could drive a lesser soul crazy…and here, where he would have no easy excuse…

Suddenly, having magic didn't sound so good…

_**In another world, at night...**_

"Of all the things in the world, I want nothing more but my friend, Marche; back. Yet I know that this is something that not even a snow sprite can give me in a wish, kupo."

The Moogle tossed up a heavy ice sword to a solider next to him. The man only just managed to grab it and then promptly dropped it, yelping and blowing on his now seared hands.

"Silly kupo. Only Marche could have held that thing in his bare hands. You'll need to wear gauntlets with that, kupo."

"I-I-I can s-see that!"

Hopping about and holding his frozen hand, the new recruit tried not to howl by biting his lip and looking up at the ceiling. Montblanc looked up too, but for a different reason…exasperation. Next to him, a fireplace roared with a passion that failed to warm the Moogle's rolling eyes.

"Gallahan, please, I'm not in the mood to unfreeze his hands, kupo."

A seasoned blue mage stepped forward, his second in command badge winking in the dim fire light. His feathered hat looked a little singed on the white plumage, but otherwise he kept himself in pristine order…his robes had an added golden trim to the edges to signify a high rank and wealth.

"Let me see that hand soldier, stop making such a fuss. You're in Clan Enthoalis now, so act like it. Not only that, but you'll have the honor of being in the Alpha faction. Montblanc's own staff. A newbie never had such an honor. You're the human he chose as a replacement for Marche. You've got shoes to fill, now….Cure!"

Pointing at the other's frigid hands, the spell was meant to, obviously, cure the slight damage freezer burn would have on them. Gallahan picked up the sword with his bracer clad hands and held it out in both hands as if offering it ceremoniously.

"Dude, when Marche was a greenhorn, he used this thing. Take care of it will yah? It was a gift from a winter sprite."

The soldier was led out, and Gallahan came back to see Montblanc staring at the fire. The laid a hand on the Moogles shoulder, feeling underneath the armor a tiny, compact muscle along his neck tense. This Moogle was the toughest he ever knew…he alone knew Marche the best. So Gallahan could only guess how much this must be affecting him.

"Listen man."

"Moogle, kupo."

"Whatever."

"Marche once called me a stuffed animal."

"…What?.!"

"He didn't know what a Moogle was. From that point on, Marche was a quick learner. He mastered the judge and laws system like it was a second nature, but this was still not his world. He mastered battle techniques left and right, but deep down, Invicilian blood did not flow from his cuts. He mastered everything there needed to be mastered about Invalice he could, but in the end, he was still not meant for this world."

"You quite a poet you know that?"

"Those were Marche's own words, but they had more flavor to it. There was more he said, but it's all forgotten."

"...Then he was a poet."

"No, he was being frank, kupo."

Standing up and letting the hand on his shoulder fall, Montblanc stepped closer to the heat of the fire, letting its power push back his fur in the hot wind. Tiny eyes stared into the blaze.

"Marche was, perhaps, the best friend a Moogle could have, kupo. He was smart, maybe not like a Nu Mou, but his smarts were different; he was strong…not like a Bangaa, but his strength was different…he knew how to make a person feel better, he was gentle when he needed to be, but his justice was absolute."

The Moogle looked back at the mage behind him, his beady eyes specks against the fierce glow that lit his face.

"…He would have made an excellent Judgemaster.

"Oh come on Montblanc, don't say things like that, your ceremony is tomorrow."

"To be a Judgemaster. I'll get buried in the very armor I wear."

"There are other Moogle judges you know...I don't know how they go into that armor though…or why they don't shrink it for them..."

"It eliminates race from the factor, makes the Judge more impartial…there are Viera judges as well, and no one cuts holes for their ears…besides, I meant what the armor means, not the real weight of the thing…the symbol will crush me."

"…That must suck…err, the Viera part, though the crushing part sucks too…"

The Moogle shook his head, sending his "pom-pom" a-swinging away violently. For a Blue Mage, Gallahan lacked a lot of creative thinking…Montblanc had no idea why Marche had made him change from a Solider to a White Mage from the very moment he took the reins, but there was no doubt that Gallahan was good with his trade…so the peace had been kept…

The former solider had always failed miserably with a sword anyway…

"Montblanc! Montblanc! Fur-ball! Oii!"

**_+-~3~-+_**

The whisper of a gentle breeze over calm sands was what woke Marche up from his sleep, and his eyes slowly opened to the darkness, his eyes adjusting to see the stars winking innocently at him. A tree branch, barren of any foliage, waved at the corner of his vision. Wait…he had gone to bed…in his room.

This wasn't good.

"Where...am I?"

Marche looked around, and then glanced down at himself. Oh very nice. He was stuck in some desert land with nothing but his PJ's. Oh joy. Not to mention that this place looked...disturbingly…like Elut Sands. He frowned at the thought, and pushed it from his head…he had more important things to be worrying about…

An arrow whizzing by his head brought Marche to the present with an untimely crash. Widening his eyes, Marche ducked under a katana headed en route for his head and; snapping into a battle mode instantly, punched his assailant straight in his gut, meeting survival vest…but he still managed to knock the other back.

Marche used this distraction as an advantage and wrestled with the other to get his blade, turning his head to avoid another well placed arrow. He managed to get the blade from the man just as he tried to cut him in two with his other one, something Marche quickly deflected and countered with a well-placed palm to the jaw. Marche swung up his blade, and, without a second thought, plunged it right thought the other's chest, making him scream bloody mercy.

_Wait…__**what am I doing**__?.! This isn't Invalice! That man will die!_

Another arrow made him instinctively dive for cover. No time to think about that…later, think about it later!

Marche nimbly took the man's other blade from his slackened hand, and pulling the bloody one free; did a quick dance to avoid deadly arrows raining down upon him. He used a boulder for cover while he glanced around, wary of peeking from behind its sandy horizon. He eyed a sand dune for a split second before deciding it was favorable, and jumped for it.

Marche sped off to one side and then another, seeking his attacker. He almost got impaled by a dozen arrows for it too; he had realized she had moved to get behind him just in time. Jumping up, he slashed right at her, his blade stopping right when it was about to slice her through the middle, cleaving her bow right in two.

His eyes widened as they locked with a pair of unmistakable green eyes and bunny-like ears, even if only the eyes were visible behind the sniper's guise, Marche recognized them instantly.

"...Nora?"

The named Viera dropped the remains of her bow and took a couple steps back; tripping up on her own garb and sent tumbling into the same boulder Marche had used to hide from her. Her veiled headwear went flying and Marche lunged after her, completely sure now as he alighted on her face.

"Nora!"

**_+-~4~-+_**

_If those who reside here wish it enough, perhaps, they will stay..._

_If we, from the other world wish it enough, we shall leave..._

"Kupo? You are kidding me, right? Marche? Kupo? No. "

"I'm telling you Montblanc; he's right outside the pub! Just come with me!"

"Marche...Marche left moons ago Nora. Moons ago. Six of them. Moons. You can't start grieving now when we all have already tried to move on, you'll drag us back down into a pit we don't want to be in...kupo, kupo..."

The sniper, angry, aimed her empty bow as if to shot the Moogle through the heart. He noticed it was a new one, and pointed at it with a questioning look in his eyes. They couldn't really afford frivolous purchases after all…

"My own funds Monty, it came from my own funds…now get up and follow me before I abandon this new job you gave me and cast Madeen on your sorry, furry behind! I'm serious here! I almost made him a pincushion before; I'm not letting him escape now."

"Pin cushion? Are you mad?"

Exasperated, the Viera grabbed him by the "paws" and pulled him off his seat with a heave, dragging him along and forcing him to walk sidewinder-like.

"Just come Monty!"

Monty just came. Monty just saw too, and what Monty saw made him want to take out his eyeballs and wash them before sticking them back in his head to make sure what he was seeing was right.

A young boy with blonde hair and wearing some strange, thin, clothing was chatting with the bartender sparingly, glancing around the pub as if looking for a way out, even though he stood right next to the door. His "way out" seemed to be a more literal term, as the boy seemed to be looking for a way out the same way Montblanc remembered his old friend looking around when he was new; randomly.

The boy was looking for some kind of magical trap door that would open up and dump him back where he belonged. As the Moogle rubbed his eyes and allowed a tired, sluggish thought to surface in his brain, he could only stare.

_Oh please Famfrit, I can't go through this again. Please; __**please**__, don't make this any harder than it already is._

The boy hardly seems to have changed at all.

Young; blonde haired Marche's build was far more noticeable in thin clothing than in armor, and he was much smaller than expected…

The signature "antenna" of blonde hair on top of Marche's head was still there, still defying all laws of gravity by sticking straight up and back in an almost crescent moon shape. Those same crystal blue eyes zoomed here and there, before finally fixing themselves with finality upon Montblanc.

The Moogle suddenly, inexplicably, was nervous as the boy slowly approached.

He was afraid now; afraid of seeing what was in front of him wash away if he came too hastily.

The two met in the middle, for Montblanc had started an almost zombie-like gait towards the blonde boy…

Marche bent down upon one knee and looked into the Moogle's eyes.

He looked so...tired. Reaching out, he drew the fuzzy being into a hug, allowing the pom-pom like appendage on top of Montblanc's head to brush his own antenna piece.

"It's only been a few hours for me, but you look like it's been moons... I still don't know how I got here in the first place Montblanc...but it's almost...worth it, to see your face...It's been hard on my side too, I kept thinking I'd killed you…"

Oh all the kupo things that can happen, this kupo thing had to. How ironic that Montblanc had turned down the winter sprites offer today when he saw it, and had asked for the one thing he wanted in the world, doubting the fairy could give it. His friend; Marche, had come back.

Maybe magic really could travel between worlds. The boy's hold was strong, stronger than it could ever have been through armor. Yet, he slowly weakened, and for a second, Montblanc was afraid, if he looked up…he would see the boy fading away.

Looking up anyway despite the fear; he saw that Marche was still there, but he had weakened his grasp to look dead in the eyes of one Ezel Berbier, who had bent over and looked like he was…examining him?

"Oh my, don't let me come in the way of your reunion, boy. I was just trying to poke and prod at you a bit, to see if you were real and what not; you know, classic mage extraordinaire thinking, we Nu-Mou always have to look into the gift horse's mouth to see where it all came from."

Marche tilted his head to look at Ezel with some quirk in his eyes.

"There's a saying among us humans that one should never look gift horses in the mouth, Ezel, but from you, I'll accept the jibe."

Standing up to his full height, he cast a critical eye over the Nu Mou. He looked tired, yet he also looked stronger. It was an odd combination, and one Marche dutifully noted. He opened his mouth, and spoke his mind, that which of had been wondering something for a while.

"How long has it been? It can't have been the same amount of time it was for me; it's only been two days over there."

_Two days? Is that all it's been for him? No wonder he still looks fresh, still new. He has barely had any time to grieve the loss; we have had six moons to contemplate life without him..._

"It's been six moons over here Marche."

The blonde boy looked up to feast his eyes upon a familiar blue mage, all a bit more singed than he had been before. The boy's eyes looked grim at that. He could only begin to imagine what kind of things Montblanc had gone through; especially if he looked the way he did now.

"Gallahan...it's been that long? ...No, never mind. I shouldn't try to make sense of how different Invalice's time runs from my world. Still, it had been a lot longer than six moons in my first visit, and barely an hour or so might have passed back home...not that I'm upset the time didn't continue to flow the same way mind you, it just seems odd..."

"Ahh Marche, always an odd human. Your mind tackles the obscure things that a Nu Mou might think of..."

Now attacked from the side, the boy swung his head to look at a wizened face. He never could really tell what was going on in the head of a Nu Mou, or how truly old they were, even when they always complimented him on his ability to consider a larger picture than most humans. He always felt they were silently laughing at him, or patting him on the head, like a good little child who has just made a brilliant discovery about something obvious.

"Hey, this isn't fair. Everybody's jumping on me at once. My head is still spinning from Nora trying to make a quiver out of me. Quinn, spill it, I know you know something about this. You've got that look in your eye."

Was that a smile that crinkled those tiny dark eyes? Marche still couldn't tell, not even after having met and having fought alongside; several Nu Mou. He did know Quinn however, and Quinn let loose a sound Marche had come to recognize as laughter, even if it was a bit subdued.

"Oh, I have a theory my Paladin friend. I have a theory. One that revolves around the fact that our esteemed clan leader wished upon a snow sprite's appearance for his friend to make a re-appearance. One that you dutifully answered not even a single day afterward I might add. Yet I do not believe in the wish granting abilities of a snow sprite so greatly as to believe you could be summoned from your other world; and in such un-representable clothes as you are..."

Marche, remembering he was still in his pajamas, didn't exactly turn red, but you might think he had been smacked with the blunt end of a sword to the face. He looked around at the crowd that had gathered around him and instantly spotted a new face, who was hanging around at the fringes of the group. He also noticed a couple missing ones. He called out to the new comer, who was clutching an Ice saber as if afraid it would come alive and stab him.

"Hey, you! That icicle's not going to stab anyone but your enemy, unless you let it get stolen. Hold it straight or sheath it!"

Marche heard a hissing sound he identified as a Bangaa's laughter, and he recognized the individual as soon as they let loose their captive guffaw. What he had said was not even funny, but it allowed him to peer into the purple helmet that is came from with interest.

"I thought you wanted to be a Defender, David..."

…_COTFO…_

Marche wiped his face to remove the sweat that had accumulated on it, and pulled his candle light closer to him. The rest of the clan had already fallen fast asleep, he was sure of that, and he could hear the even breathing of Gallahan from the bed off to his side, and a light, soft snore Marche always stapled on Montblanc. He grimaced as he looked over the data for the clan that Montblanc had shown him.

In the six moons he had been absent, his clan had gone: "To the dogs." to quote his own self; at least, that's the way Montblanc put it.

Their territory had shrunk until it currently only consisted of the small niche of area around Cyril, and several of the missing faces Marche had noticed were confirmed as discharges. Besides the original seed, there were few others left. Montblanc, David, Gallahan and Marc, his original four members of which he himself had made five, plus Nora, who had been their first recruit, were joined by Quinn the Sage and David the Thief, who preferred Dave due to the fact they already had a David in their "Defender turned Dragoon".

Besides that, they had Littlevilli, who now had returned to the basics and become a sniper, and finally Pallanza, a Gladiator who had been relatively new in the clan when Marche had left, and who now had taken on the mantle of a Defender. All the others had left. This new Human was their only other member, and Marche had a funny feeling he belonged more in an Illusionist's garb than his current Soldier's fare.

Not only that, but, while they had previously had quite a large surplus of Gill, Marche now noticed quite a few deficits in the clans financial stands, and it seemed they had a huge debt of nearly fifty thousand gill that Marche saw no avenue to pay it off for. Montblanc seemed to have been doing a good job keeping that a secret, but Marche saw right through his carefully planned surface planning to the rot underneath.

Yet, Marche still had other things on his mind. Like his talk with Quinn after the crowd around him had dissipated, in which he had extradited the Nu Mou's theory and then instantly began formulating his own. The Nu Mou seemed to think that Montblanc's great wish alone, along with the desires of the falling clan, had managed to, through the sprite's magic, draw him back here, just like how the world had continued to exist while being supported by those who lived here. Still, Marche thought that plan had little solidity behind it, and told the Nu Mou so, to which he happily agreed. After all, it was only a surface glance with a million holes.

He himself thought that he did not quite belong in his own world anymore.

Marche's own theory was centered along the fact that, he might be able to use magic in the other world, and thus, along with his memories of this place, still had a handle upon Invalice, a connection. That connection was only made stronger by his friends, who grieved and even wished for him, as he had for them. That wish might have been a focal point for the change, or perhaps it had been his own magic, perhaps it was both. He thought that, because he had arrived just after the sprite received it's wish, and he had only, most likely, just fallen asleep, that his vulnerable state, along with his own magic, had responded to the sprites, and with his handle upon the world of Invalice. In short, all of these things working together had created a kind of bungee effect, in which his handle upon this world had become a cord that had pulled tight before quickly reeling him back in, to here.

Still, if he was correct, that would mean that he would, inevitably, bungee _back _into his own world.

He even had a suitable thought of how it worked.

The mechanism was time. Both worlds ran on different clocks, drastically different from the other. When one's time strayed too far from the other, his cord would pulled tight, until he would be forced to swing back there until it pulled tight again...yet, if that was the case, his mind could only pale at the thought. He would be sent flying from one place to the other, like a ping pong, constantly. His days inhabited by his normal life, his nights becoming moons worth of fantasy and adventure, he would go mad with it...Yet, there was a still a problem.

Two days did not equal six moons in Invalice.

It should have equaled something far longer, which made him think that perhaps, which Invalice's Totema destroyed, this world had weakened more than one might have originally thought, and that its very clock had slowed. Marche could even think of himself like an anchor, tying the two worlds together and forcing either Invalice to slow down, or his own world's time to speed up...

No, now he was placing too much power on himself. If he had any affect at all on the passage of time in this world, it would have to be extremely minimal…

Marche shook his head to clear it of his contemplation. It was utter nonsense, but he could not help but praise his ability to come up with a more solid theory than his Nu Mou friend, however childishly.

In the deep night, it was almost completely silent, and Marche sighed as he poured again into the papers in front of him. From outside, the light from the moon shafted through a window; its rays fell just short of Marche's chair as he sat. His eyes were half closed from exhaustion before they lit upon an opening in the paper he was reading.

Here was something that could solve their financial problems...how could he have missed it originally?

Snuffing out his candle, he checked his pockets before he came up with the Key Montblanc had given him for a room they had rented for him, just for the night. Smiling lightly, he quietly walked out of the room, only pausing to pull up the covers, which had fallen off the bed, for Montblanc, and swiping Gallahan's hat from his head, saving his feather from being slowly pulled into the vacuum that was his mouth in snore mode. The door closed with a soft snap behind him, leaving the room in peace as the boy vanished into the night…

_**+-~Morning…**_

_I'm still here...Well, it doesn't discount my theory, I'll have to wait a couple of moons before I can prove myself right or wrong...but I can tell the suspense is going to kill me._

Getting up slowly, Marche instantly noticed two things that were wrong. One was that the room he was in seemed to be way too bright for the early morning, and two was that there seemed to be a full-fledged war going on outside, or at least, that was what it sounded like. Shooting out of the room like a golden bullet, Marche jumped the banister, amid the yell of the innkeeper, and landed lightly on the first floor before speeding out the door, pulling at his waist and realizing there was no blade there.

He inwardly cursed when he saw the mob of creatures outside, all of them trying to pummel a judge upon a Chocobo…the scene was something to see, people normally left Judges alone, out of fear if nothing else. It was a bright day today, and the light stabbed Marche's delicate eyes. This judge didn't seem to be a normal one, and; once Marche forced himself through the fray of creatures to get a closer look, he saw he was correct.

Knocking over an overly excited Hume with an elbow, Marche ducked the sword the man had been waving around and watched the Judge struggle to rein in the crowd so that he could pass. The markings along the braced neck and crest glinted in the sun, giving Marche pause. Those were the Judgemaster's markings…

Turning around to see the angry faces, Marche grabbed a Short sword from a flailing Solider and used it to push some people back, pajamas and disheveled hair making him look like a comical figure…until he called up his Thundaga spell when one laughing soul got to close. The creature, a Bangaa, yelped and fell to the ground, shivering from the pain. Marche's bladed hand glowed lightly before he struck out his sword forward, sending a blast of air right into a pack of Humans not too far from him.

FarFist proved itself useful in close quarters just as much as distance play, and Marche knew that. Spinning on the spot, Marche viciously delivered a kick to a hunter that he had missed, and then flashed out his weapon flat-bladed into a drunken looking Sages' side. He called up another Thundaga, raking a few more that were too close, and snagged a Silver sword from one of them.

Oh, it was on now. Spinning both of his weapons in his grip for balance, Marche only paused when a powerful fire spell blasted a whole rank of rowdy people in front of him, bringing some sweat to his face in a flash of heat and sound. He turned to see the Judge's arm still poised in the air. Looks like he could handle himself just fine…

_**+-~Later…**_

Marche smoothed the hair out of his face before jamming down the helmet on his head, his face all but disappearing, and leaving only two crystal orbs to stare through the visor. If he ever got a hand in smiting, he would make a helmet with a wider visor; you couldn't see anything but right in front of you in this hunk of junk for Pete's sake.

Well, at least this hunk of junk would prevent his head from becoming a puddle of bloody gore, and that was the main point, wasn't it? He strapped on a spare Peytral armor that someone had let him borrow from the scrap pile of junk the weapon's shop housed at its rear.

He also swung about a battered Ragnarok from that same pile. In his other hand, a formerly bent SaveTheQueen held residence. Marche had spent the night hammering at it to try and mend the damage done to the once noble weapon...

Solid, plain boots with a reinforced toe of animal bone graced his feet as he experimentally clenched his fist tight around his SaveTheQueen, bracers apparent. He was the picture of the scrap heap.

He was also the picture of a famed, legendary warrior who was using that scrap heap as cover. Gallahan couldn't help but laugh at the figure Marche cut.

"Boss...you could even make garbage look noble. I bet if all you had on was a bent and rusty short sword and a bucket for a helmet, the enemy would still run from you like the devil was on their heels, even if the rest of you were nude!"

The blonde boy blinked from behind his helmet, which had a huge dent in the back. He smiled, but of course, the effect was lost behind his headgear. He didn't need to remind Gallahan of the proceedings that this morning had held…the end result would have been the same…

"Let's go. We had to provide a guard for Montblanc, don't we?"

Always to business...that was the Boss. Montblanc was, as of today, officially a Judgemaster, if he could only get to the ceremony, which kept getting put off, for obvious reasons. The term "racists" had become a widespread term to describe the phenomenon...of course; some just wondered why a Viera, Nu Mou or Bangaa had not been selected...

Marche walked out of the pub, drawing a few odd looks for the scrap heap he was wearing, and approached a white Chocobo with pride. Montblanc, in armor that made him nigh unrecognizable, looked down upon him.

"I never thought I'd see the day the Great Marche would ride alongside me again, especially not in that...kupo, you're a mess!"

"Don't I know it, but this is good cover. I'm your single guard, so treat me nice huh? Lead the way."

Treat him nice? Since when had they ever done otherwise? Still, the Moogle knew what he meant, it was a long way to the palace, and there would be enemies at every turn. Montblanc would not be able to fight; Marche would be his sole defender.

If he tired, then Montblanc would be in trouble, hence the "take care of me." As he reigned in his steed and urged it forth, the Moogle thought of the fate of their clan…

Who would play that complementing second in command role now? Or did Marche even want to lead his clan again? It was true that the boy had picked up the reigns again and was managing the clan's dispatches and funds at the moment, but he had yet to declare himself the leader again, and something told Montblanc that, unless something happened, he wouldn't.

They rode in silence for a while, side by side as the sun scoped the sky above. The armored Moogle had been about to break the silence when Marche stopped his steed and jumped off, bringing the other's eyes to the front, where a trio of Coeurl stood in their path, a hunter, assassin and Beastmaster in front of them.

Things did not look nice, especially as the three in front of him grinned. The Hunter smirked as he ran his hands lovingly over his bow, his eyes sparkling as he called out.

"Only one guard! We must be in luck; the Judge is as cheap as he is small!"

Behind his visor, Marche gritted his teeth. Montblanc had no choice, Judges didn't participate in battles...it was against protocol. He could only, reluctantly, draw out his whistle and call it. A six on one, not good odds...

Marche rushed in, barely before the shrill call had finished, spinning and meeting the assassin's slim blade with his own, and pushing her off him, slashing at her free arm with his second one. The Beastmaster swung at him with a long, bell shaped weapon, but the boy twisted away, and shot up his Ragnarok to block an incoming arrow. He called to Montblanc.

"Laws!"

The boy spun and slashed the assassin right in the middle as she lunged at his back, making her drop to the floor, clutching a bleeding wound. Ducking under anther swing from the other's bell, the boy rushed at the Hunter, dropping to the ground in a roll as one of the Coeurl came too close, lunging. Another landed on top of him; it's hot, wet breath fogging his vision inside his helmet, dampening his hair…

"Steal, Fire and Knives are forbidden!"

Stabbing upwards with both blades, he caught the beast in the gut, ripping it away from him and leaving it where the body fell. He twisted into a roll, avoiding a thunder spell from the Beastmaster this time, it seemed like he was putting time as a black mage to good use.

Marche jumped up and swung out at the hunter, his blade meeting his steel bow in a flurry of sparks, and Marche swung out his free blade, only to have the other twist away. He shot off an arrow at close distance, and it bounced off Marche's dented helmet, giving him a thumping headache as it pealed like a bell.

The boy swung out with both his blades, and even though one of his swings missed, but the other caught his opponent on the arm, lacing his sleeves with his own blood. He screamed, but Marche had no time for him, another Coeurl had snuck up, and had jumped at him, raking with claws.

"Gah! He's a monster!"

He sidestepped, and watched as the beast fell upon its own human comrade, its claws sinking into his armor. Marche swung his blades out viciously; crystal blue eyes reflecting the sun that stabbed at it from his blades. He caught both of his opponents at once in one shot, felling them both.

"I-It was just one guard…"

Turning, he jerked backwards to avoid another swing from the Beastmaster. That bell...was annoying the hell out of him. Marche sidestepped when the other lunged, stabbing his blades home into the chest, tense body go slack as he removed them.

"F-fast..."

Still, the blonde hissed as he felt something dig into his back, and his foot shot out backwards, hitting something very warm and heavy, disengaging it from him. He swung around, blades out, to slice right through the last Coeur's body, only giving it time to squeak before falling.

Montblanc could only stare. It was not like he had never seen Marche fight before but...it always appalled him, even as he sent out the required magic to award the boy six…six judge points, how he could be so different.

Outside… a loving, caring, kind and often more than a little innocent boy, but in battle, a cunning, quick footed commander whose blade was merciless, ice eyes piercing your very soul. Montblanc urged his Chocobo closer, leading Marche's, and the boy looked up, his eyes still clouded with war.

It was that look that always made the mage pity the enemy... Still heaving, Marche turned to him, clearing his eyes. He winced generously as he felt his back, where the claws that had sunk there went past his armor.

"Well...that was fun. Shouldn't you heal them now Montblanc? I'd suggest not waiting around afterwards though..."

Oh, right... that _was_ **his** job now, right? Just heal them and leave them in some corner to wake up sometime soon...and then scram. They still had to get to the palace after all.

**_+-~5~-+_**

Marche breathed in deeply, holding out the plain sword in front, his body relaxed as he focused on the Bangaa in front of him. The Gladiator swung up their great sword and slashed out, a swing fit to shatter his own blade on contact. Still, Marche swung his blade out and met the others, sending sparks flying.

The two battled for superiority, Human vs. Bangaa, and even as the Bangaa was naturally stronger, the boy had all of his legendary experience, and his trials, at his side, and pushed the other, harder, until his opponent slid once, twice...

With a roar, the other focused all of his strength, pushing back at Marche, an inch at a time gaining ground...with a heave, the two disengaged and swung back out, meeting again.

While Montblanc would be 'initiated" Marche had nothing to do, so what better time just to get some training in? He stomped his feet solidly upon the ground, halting his slow backward slide and used his legs as extra leverage to keep the other at bay, building up his energy for one last burst of strength, which he used to throw off the other and then rush him, sending him off his feet and tumbling unto the ground.

Dead. The boy laughed at the other's bewildered face. He was glad he had tossed on a robed hood. The Bangaa didn't know how he was, only that he was a human and had just, incredibly, overpowered him.

"You're good! It's been a while since I've done this, but still, you're a strong one. Too bad you're already in a clan...or I'd tell you to go to clan Enthoalis!"

Clan Enthoalis, otherwise known to those close as Infinity, was a dwindling clan that had once controlled half of Invalice under the command of Marche Radiju, but now? It was a broken thing, but it held tight to Cyril as if it was their only hope, and their power was still renowned, if subdued.

The Bangaa looked up at the human, interested in a small way.

"...And you havesss a connection withss them?"

Marche pondered that, if he ever met an anaconda, all he would have to do was hear it hiss to lose his fear. Most Bangaa were like huge, muscled teddy bears, their main weapon was their strength and the fear other's had of them. Marche raised his sword and sheathed it simply.

"I suppose you could say that..."

_**+-~Later Still…**_

Once more into the darkness did his mind dip. A lonely spark in the dead of night, a lick of flame flickering in the cool breeze. It was here that Marche, once again, found himself. These past moons, six of them, had flown by so quickly, hardly touching the boy, save to reaffirm his strength. To further shape him into the being who stood, blade captive in his hands, by the fire. His helmet was off, hair flying free in the soft breeze, eyes searching the heavens, twinkling constellations...in his mind, he saw a ghostly image of the ones he knew from home transposed upon them.

Yet, he had never said a word. Not in all of this time, had he even once mentioned the desire, once more, to set foot upon the grounds of home. No tears in the depths of night for his mother, no pines like that of a lost puppy for his brother's betrayal, not even a tremor of the wrist in his blade from plaguing memories, of friends, ones too far away to be aware.

His hands gripped painfully about the grip of his Excalibur. Opposite him, Pallanza stood. Marche knew now, that smile. Of all the opponents the mighty gladiator had fought, the only one fast enough to avoid his powerful blade, and yet strong enough to stand against its strike...was the one who had his eyes upon the stars. Oh, he had fought monsters, of course, and they, being beasts, had matched and even superseded his skill with the blade...but among the Bangaa of Enthoalis, Pallanza was the strongest, and Marche was the only opponent he felt worthy of his time.

"Ssir."  
"...Pallanza."  
"...You still do miss your homeland..."

It wasn't a question. That the boy could tell. His removed one of his hands from the hilt of his blade, turning almost drunkenly to face the Bangaa. Quite often, Marche thought the Bangaa got and extremely bad rap, being called foolish and hotheaded, stubborn and even brutish. He knew from experience that they could be just as sharp eyed and witted as any Nu Mou, and as wise...just as any Nu Mou could get kicked out of a bar for being a brutish drunkard.

"Yes, I do."  
"Yet you fear anger if you show it?"

"No Pallanza. I've simply learned to take the hardening battle has given my body and apply it to my heart. I have worn my heart too often upon my breast; I can't have it get stabbed again."

It was true, from what he had seen of Marche. He had been a kind boy, innocent outside of battle, loving, caring...reluctant to deal the final killing blow...especially in a Jaghd. Yet, his strength was such that he knew not else but to let the lust, the battle rage, over take him. It gave him the tools to lay waste to his opponents upon the field, drench the soil in rich blood so that he could live another day.

As he might say it...his bed of roses, fed by the flames of war, drenched in its crimson fare, their thorns worn proudly upon his guise. The nails, they wait underneath, patient, undying, for him to come and lie...

Overtly poetic for _his_ tastes, but at least it shut up Quin, leaving him in a kind of thoughtful, analyzing state. He hated that look the Nu Mou had in that mode, but he hated, even more, how the Sage talked down to Bangaa as if they were nothing but deaf, mute lizards basking in the sunlight.

Marche claimed Quin couldn't help it, so he had to become a poet to shush him up.

"...I know the ache the mother land gives you when you cannot return, Marche...but I cannot imagine being unable to return in such the way you are. The pain must be great. As long as I am in Invalice, I am in my mother's soil, no matter where I roam, but you who come from another world..."

The paladin with the speed of a ninja and the monstrous strength of a true solider, yet whose cunning could only come from long experience as a clan head. He shook his head at the Bangaa's admittance. Recently, the boy had been pushing himself further, drilling his clan all the harder...and just a few hours prior, a Jaghd had been claimed.

Enthoalis now claimed a territory that spanned the five major cities of Invalice and Lutia Pass, the main means of transport between them all. With the addition of a Jaghd, they controlled roughly a third of Invalice.

Six moons. It was awfully fast, and most of the time was spent on quick footed Chocobo. They had forced their way through, attacking viciously and giving no parry, practically tossing away any opposition that dared stand in their way. The blue eyed demon opposite him had done quite a large portion of that tossing himself. One might say he was simply doing his job of restoring their glory, but Pallanza saw it as guilt, guilt and distraction.

"I know Pallanza...I know. Perhaps if my mother were here with me, I might be able... to forget. Or if I knew she was safe, happy. If...if I knew where Doned; my brother, was, and what he was doing...if he was safe...or Mewt...Yet...I digress...you did want a spar did you not?"

"Digressss? I've only heard Quin use that word before, or Ezel and 'Gally. Don't tell me you're sstarting too."

A smile, rare and wide, split upon his face. He let loose the Excalibur, hefting it from the ground and roughly sheathing it before reaching behind his back and tugging with both hands, lugging a massive blade to come forth.

It had recently been put together by a blacksmith who had requested a few materials from a pub, claiming to have found the design for it, long since buried. The MasterSword, a sword who's power Marche had yet to find a match for, and yet, it's weight and size made it difficult to handle and thus use. In battle, Marche was more effective with his two Excalibur's than he was with this one blade, he was two slow and deliberate, he claimed.

But in practice spars...it was a challenge he welcomed. It made Pallanza grimace inwardly however. Ever since he had begun bringing that blade into their spars, he had begun to lose, Marche that is.

The Bangaa had hoped for a good battle today, but, if his leader insisted...yet, as he grudgingly set his pose, Marche smiled. He called to the Bangaa, almost laughing. Had he given up hope? He'd _win_ this time. Not just tie or lose. He'd _win_.

The hefty blade shook in his hands, and, while Pallanza didn't like the look of it, he pulled out his own. That blade was more fit in the hands of a burly Bangaa, it had come from a legend about one any way. Yet he had lost to an equally powerful human, and the man had stolen his blade. Quite ironic that he was facing Marche with this blade now. Perhaps he should take it from him if he lost again, The MasterSword.

Lunging forth, he swung out his blade, and was surprised when a great expanse of sheer steel shot up with a mighty heave, meeting his blade in a flurry of sparks and making him loose his footing. Marche arched his blade back down, forcing the Bangaa to contest with its weight against his own. The momentum off it was incredible!

Breaking off he bore in, slashing for Marche's head, but Marche ducked under the slash, forcing his own blade up to bang against his, sending vibrations soaring down his spine.

The thrill of battle, the boy had been bluffing the tremors!

So, this is what Marche had been doing in the dark of night…it had been nearly a moon since they had battled last, and this was why! Pallanza forced up his blade to deflect a forward stab, but the sheer weight behind Marche's blade forced him to skid back. The boy rolled with the momentum of his stab, stepping in to keep the distance small as he forced his blade up to aim for Pallanza's head.

Pallanza lunged towards Marche to get under it though, slashing at Marche's middle in passing; but the boy spun with his slash, slicing at the Bangaa's unprotected back and pitching him forwards on his stomach.

Marche made to smite him right where he lay, but Pallanza rolled away from his stab, jumping up to rushed through Marche's guard to his middle. Yet the boy twisted away, heaving his blade back up out of the ground and, flinging damp soil everywhere, deflected Pallanza's next slash.

Throwing his weight upon his sword, he forced Pallanza away and swung out, forcing the Bangaa further away. Damn, his back stung! Marche bore in again, closing the distance, raising his heavy blade again and again, spinning with his slashes, riding his own momentum.

Desperate, he jumped away and spun in a circle, slashing out viciously at Marche's hand, yet the boy simply let his blade from his dual hold into a single one, twisting away from Pallanza's attempt and stabbing out with the MasterSword...

Still in one hand, it was a lot harder to control, and its weight ripped it from his hand, knocking Pallanza's from his hold and almost running him through, but the Bangaa was quick to dodge. He watched as the blade buried itself deep into the soil, his own weapon bouncing against a rock and sent to quiver in the trunk of a nearby tree. Marche was silent.

"…Sssir. If I may, that was one hellsss of a throw...No thiefs could match that one…"

Marche, despite himself, couldn't help but laugh. A tie then, it seemed.

**_+-~E~-+_**

_Well, that was long and difficult to navigate. Pleas don't harp on the yo-yo like quality of writing, I was snipping bits and pieces from old content, like I said. I hope this will be updated soon by myself, but I can never be sure...but hey, in the meanwhile...here. Finalage out. ~Finalage._


End file.
